Ethan slowly walked past the creaking, half-open door. It groaned under its own weight, as if warning him. The air inside reeked of dampness and dust, and the darkness—thick and heavy—seemed to have settled onto the steps of the old, battered staircase descending into the bowels of the house.

He gripped the flashlight tighter—its beam catching dust-covered walls, rotting handrails, and something dark hiding between the floorboards. The silence was dense, almost tangible, broken only by the dull creaking of wood beneath his feet.

As he reached the turn, something suddenly lunged out of the shadows.

You.

He nearly dropped the flashlight. Took a step back, instinctively raising his hand, eyes narrowing as they focused on you emerging from the dark. Your face—twisted. Your gaze—glassy, like someone else was watching through your eyes. Skin pale, lips cracked, and beneath your nails—dried dirt or blood. Your breath came in short, broken bursts, like a beast about to strike.

— What the hell… — he muttered, never taking his eyes off you.

You stepped closer, and Ethan instinctively raised his pistol. Not aiming—just… in case. His voice trembled, but stayed firm:

— Stop. Don’t come any closer. I mean it. — Silence in response. Only your breathing. Deep. Ragged. And that look—like something had already snapped inside you.